


Fire

by Wanna_be_goodr



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Agnes Nutter - Freeform, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angsty Crowley (Good Omens), Existential Angst, Fire, Loss, M/M, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-23 01:56:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23003917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanna_be_goodr/pseuds/Wanna_be_goodr
Summary: What goes through Crowley's mind when he finds Aziraphale's bookshop empty - well, empty of the only thing that matters
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Swearing and existential angst

It is so hot it's cold. The light is so bright it's blinding, and yet somehow he can see with terrible clarity. He can see every inch of blazing bookshop, feel the images branding themselves onto his eyelids so he'll never be free of them. Images of beloved possessions, books, furniture going up in flames. Images of a bookshop without its proprietor. Images of an Aziraphale-less existence for Crowley: a fate worse than death.

The cloying smell of burning leather and parchment stings Crowley's tongue as he tries to cry out, to call for his angel. The words crumble in his mouth like the shelves surrounding him and shatter into ash. Crowley coughs. He struggles. He *hurts*. He curses Aziraphale for not being there when the demon needed him. He curses himself for not arriving sooner. He curses heaven and hell and god and the universe and everything in between for taking his angel.

Not like this, he thinks. Please not like this, not engulfed in flames like those unimaginative representations of hell we both hate so much. He directs his thoughts now, directs them to someone who never listens no matter how loud he shouts. Don't you DARE kill Aziraphale you disembodied, uninterested, self-important bitch! Take me. Have me, the troublesome one. The one who hung out with the wrong crowd, who Fell because he asked too many questions. Don't take him - you can't! What's he done wrong? The Arrangement, stopping Armageddon, all of this - it was my idea, not his. You can't blame him! I tempted him! That's what I do. That's my lot since you -

Crowley's screaming now, not sure if he's making any physical noise but trying his damned hardest to make that bitch hear him.

Since you pushed me. YOU let me Fall. It's YOUR fault. IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT! YOU!

YOU, who claims to so benevolent, so kind, so self-sacrificing. So FORGIVING. You're the biggest hypocrite of them all, you are. Not Gabriel, not Lucifer, not Beelzebub, not even me or Aziraphale or ANY human. You.

Crowley pours all his existential, self-loathing angst into the ruins of his angel's bookshop in one last hopeless wail, casts around one last time, hoping to see something, anything -

There's a book that hasn't been damaged in the inferno yet. It looks familiar but Crowley can't remember where he's seen it before. It doesn't matter, it's a souvenir now. A keepsake. A reminder. Something to hold in the endless night, something that reminds him of Aziraphale.

He makes a sound now. Raw and broken and private. It's as if its been ripped directly out of his chest, and it sounds like loss.

Crowley rises from his knees, unaware that he'd fallen to them. He turns around and leaves the bookshop without looking back. He clicks his fingers and the doors close behind him. Those doors, they close on more than the flames licking at his back, pulling at his wings. Those doors close on a thousand memories - Rome, Paris, the Globe, countless operas and plays, St James' Park, Soho streets filled with delightful tea shops and patisseries and restaurants. They close on happy memories, sunny afternoons, booze-filled evenings. Those doors close on Aziraphale. On Crowley's life.

This, where his best friend died, is where Crowley dies too. There's nothing more for him now. Bring on Armageddon. Who cares? Not him - god took that from him when she took Aziraphale. Fuck the humans, fuck the world, fuck the universe. Fuck god and all the angels and the demons. Fuck this, Crowley thinks. And then he doesn't.

No thinking anymore. No remembering. No feeling. They all mean Aziraphale. So just... nothing. No imagination, no past, no future. Not for Crowley, not anymore. This is where his life ends.

It's just a shame he has to keep on existing. The curse of immortality.

Fuck it all.


End file.
